Second Chances
by Lady Merlin
Summary: They sit there and shiver and sob, but what’s done is done, and there are no second chances. Not in life, anyway. Not for them. Very AU, I warn you. CharacterDeath. One-shot hints of strong friendship.


**DARK!DARK!DARK! Not telling you who, though. Figure it out! It's pretty obvious!**

Inspired by the song Violet Hill by Coldplay. Especially the last verse.

_I took my love down to Violet Hill,_

_There we sat in snow,_

_At that time, she was silent still_

_So if you love me,_

_Won't you let me know?_

He sits at the side of an empty bed. The room is dark and slightly stuffy, because he is smoking a cigar and the windows are closed. He ignores it, and inhales even deeper, enjoying the giddiness that is so close to a high. He picks up the glass of liquor from beside him, and sips the sweet, honey-like liquid, letting the flavor seep into his taste buds. It is mellow, and multi-layered, and he enjoys another sip. He doesn't know how many glasses he's drunk, but he knows his consciousness is slipping, and savors every moment of that thoughtlessness.

He closes his eyes and an aurora-of-blood-vessels plays behind his eyelids. He enjoys the natural scenery. He considers, carefully.

_He _is gone. The one who mattered most, is gone. And there is no one to blame but himself. He is plagued day-and-night by _what-if's_, and he can't forget the look on _his_ face, when the truth came out. It was relief, of all things. _He _must have been carrying it around for years. It feels… it feels strange. He imagines the look on his own face. Did he look hurt? Did he? Because it hurt.

He has always known that his karma is bad, despite him not believing in it. He has always known that all the good stuff would come, and go away, leaving him shattered. But he had gotten so used to _him_. It more-than-sucks that _he's_ gone. It_ hurts._

His cigar has burned away and he kills the last smoking bit on the table. It hisses on the pool of condensed water, and fades because it has no choice_, like them. They had no choice. _

He wonders if he's celebrating that _he's_ gone, or if he's celebrating that he can't hurt _him_ anymore. He knows he's celebrating _neither. _

His mouth is tingly, as is his heart. As a doctor he knows that's probably not a good sign, but after tonight that wouldn't matter. He still can't believe what he's considering. It hasn't yet registered.

He has never told anyone what he saw when he was 'dead'. Not a word has leaked out, because he kept it to himself. They plagued him with questions, but he remained adamant.

He saw peace, when he was dead. There was nothing. He doesn't remember anything, or he remembers darkness, either way. It's quiet, and it's happy. He's happy, which is a new emotion, frankly speaking. His leg doesn't hurt, he isn't plagued by thoughts. The only thought he has is of content-ness, warmth, freedom.

His eye-lids are heavy, and he considers if this can wait till tomorrow, because if he's going to do this, he has all the time in the world, anyway. He briefly recognizes the argument; it's the one he's used against distraught teens so many times, with the massive logical flaw. He shakes it out of his mind. This is his last chance. After this they'll be too hover-y.

He considers if this is the right thing, if it'll _really_ leave _all _of them happy. But _he's_ gone. And _he's_ never coming back. Never. So it makes no difference.

He takes a gulp out of the bottle, and now the liquid burns on its way down. He's getting drunk, but he wants to be sober when he does this, so he makes himself coffee, and drinks it down. He is awake now, so he pulls out a knife.

He washes his face and cleans his mouth. It's the least he can do—he knows how it feels to be on the other end of a—a—he can't say it.

Some childish part of him hopes they'll all be miserable without him, but truly, he knows they won't. He may have been brilliant, but he made life hard, and they'd respect his brilliance, but over time they'd forget him. And he was okay with that, really. If there really _was_ an afterlife, he didn't want to be plagued by their sadness. That was why he was doing this in the first place.

He knows this will be painful if not done quickly, so he pulls out all the other machines from the mains. It's a large one, he has rationalized this out.

He turns up power to twenty five amps, when one is enough to fry his brain. He doesn't want to make mistakes. He doesn't want to live out his life as a vegetable. There are no second chances for this. _There are no second chances in life, his_ voice reminds him. He ignores it. He tells himself that _he_ long ago lost the right to voice an opinion. He knows it's a lie.

Without bothering for much more thought, the knife is in the socket. It's over in a split-second.

Cuddy will find him in the morning, and her scream will echo in the hallways of PPTH. They will not be able to identify him at first, which is what he intends. Then they will find his note.

It tells them to not mourn, and to not blame themselves. He does this because it was his own choice, because he's had enough. Enough of what, he doesn't specify. But he's had enough. He tells them exactly what will happen to him, and tells them it'll be painless, because he knows that that's what he himself would want to know if he were on the other end, the receiving end. He leaves them notes for some of the patients, because it's not true what he says. He does care. He tells Cuddy to publish all his unfinished work; it is his last contribution. He tells them to send his love and a note to _him_.

They all know what he's talking about.

Wilson receives the note in the morning when he reaches the office, and assumes it's some crap from House. He leaves it to the afternoon, and then the evening. He slits it open, still boiling with anger from what House has (had?) done.

As he reads, his blood drains, and his knees quiver. He falls to the ground, and a dozen other concerned doctors rush over to help him, but he doesn't know they're there. He weeps.

_James,_

_I know what I did was wrong, truly, I do. So many things I do are wrong, and end up messing things up. The only thing I was good at was diagnosing people, and then still I couldn't diagnose myself. I accept that you are angry at me, and accept all responsibility. When you read this, it may not matter anymore, but I need you to know you were the only thing that mattered to me. You made my life worth living, and without you life is not worth living. Don't get me wrong, I'm not blaming you, god no! I did this because I wanted to, because I needed to. I just need you to know what you meant to me. I _love_ you, James. All said and done, I swear, I do. _

_Miss you,_

_Greg_

Written on the envelope was the date of the funeral. It's tomorrow. It's actually almost tomorrow. He doesn't care.

He drives like a madman and makes it on time for the funeral. They are all broken, the ones who attend. Everyone faces with these things, but not when it's so unexpected. Not when the one affected was the last person you'd expect to—to—never mind. They sit there and shiver and sob, but what's done is done, and there are no second chances. Not in life, anyway. Not for them.

Well? What says the reader? Sorry for the emo-ness, but it didn't turn out the way I wanted. I was planning for it to be thinking-of-suicide, not committing suicide. But hey, here's what my brain wants, so here it is. Let me know, okay?

Love,

Lady Merlin


End file.
